12 Refugee Camp II

"Frain..." the slave Wildren replied, her dull gaze fixed on the ground.

Lupus glared back at the merchant, startling him.

"I, uh… I don't know," the merchant muttered, scratching his cheek nervously. "She was like that when someone traded her for a few thousand credits."

Jack's eyes narrowed at a complete lie.

"This is defective merchandise," Lupus said, her voice sharp and accusing. "If you'd cut her ears off, she'd be indistinguishable from a human. She's a disgrace to her kind."

Jack choked at her comment. That's unnecessarily harsh! What was she trying to say?

The lioness Wildren figeted her hands, her expression visibly sad.

Lupus' words lingered in the air, heavy with implied bargaining. The merchant's smile faltered as he struggled to maintain his composure.

Jack, standing just behind Lupus, felt his brow furrow. Don't tell me she's actually going to buy a slave… he murmured to himself, incredulous.

Without warning, Jack seized Lupus by the wrist and yanked her away from the wretched scene.

"Come on, Lupus. You're not seriously considering it," he said, his voice firm with disapproval. His steps quickened.

If there was one thing he despised more than anything, it was slavery.

"Hey! Hey…" she yelped, startled by his sudden boldness. Jack never touched her willingly. Not until now. This time, it felt different.

Lupus cast a fleeting, pitying glance over her shoulder at the lioness Wildren as the slave trader wiped sweat from his brow in relief.

"Okay…" she murmured, falling in step behind Jack. His silent condemnation was palpable, and she had no reason to resist.

Eventually arriving at the entrance of House Tasmania, Lupus pushed open the double doors and strode inside. A soothing wave of lavender fragrance instantly enveloped them. The contrast with the chaotic streets was stark, like stepping between two separate worlds divided only by the massive, elaborate oak doors.

Lavish lounges crowded the space, expensive leather suitcases and finely crafted baggage scattered over an embroidered carpet. Crystal chandeliers adorned the high ceilings, casting warm, flickering reflections across elegantly dressed men and women.

Lupus sniffed the air a few times before exchanging a small smile with Jack. He smiled back, though his weariness was plain to see.

Together, they made their way toward the reception desk, where a man in a dark red suit and hat stood, dipping his head politely. Just as they were about to check in, a cloaked elf shuffled forward, reaching the counter a fraction of a second before them.

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Realising he had inadvertently cut the line, the elf turned and nodded in silent apology, then stepped aside with an extravagantly polite gesture.

"Oh, please, take your turn first, Sir Lunarius Willhelm Mae Arden," Lupus spoke up with an unusual air of grace.

She elegantly tapped one toe behind her other foot, dipping her head slightly in a display of respect that was rare for her.

Watching from the side, Jack almost fell for her cuteness before catching himself, quickly turning away to hide the heat creeping up his face.

As he took a closer look at Willhelm Mae Arden, a cold knot formed in his stomach.

He realised he could never stand on equal footing with this man, this favoured child of a goddess. In every way, appearance, aura, refinement, he was utterly outclassed.

The elf was incredibly attractive, with dazzling green eyes like the rarest emeralds of Vinveil. His silky, long hair was tied back in a single ponytail, cascading down like a waterfall. Long, curled eyelashes framed his sharp monolid eyes.

His face was finely chiselled, with subtle indentations along a refined jawline and high cheekbones — striking, yet not overwhelmingly masculine.

A golden Lunarius ring, engraved with the glyph of Ares, adorned his index finger.

He stood taller than Jack, easily surpassing 190 centimetres, his posture exuding both regality and pride.

Willhelm and Lupus engaged in an animated discussion about arcane matters, their conversation peppered with occasional chuckles.

"Well, don't mind if I do! I have an urgent need to keep myself in peak condition for the battles ahead," Willhelm said, flashing a charismatic smile.

Lupus tilted her head up, her golden eyes meeting his.

"Then I'm most pleased to be of any aid," she replied, her tone an octave higher than usual.

"Haha, too bad Empress Aurora called upon warmongering mages instead of Renaissance ones," Willhelm quipped with a chuckle, amused by his own satire.

Lupus simply nodded, her gaze never wavering.

"If she had," he continued, his voice tinged with genuine empathy, "perhaps they could help the people outside. So many are starving, injured, lost… It's a tragic sight. Yet who am I to judge the will of the heavens?"

A sense of admiration, sharp and unwanted, pricked at Jack. Such nobility… the perfect man, he thought, feeling the weight of Willhelm's effortless charisma.

Then, a puzzle piece clicked into place.

He understood the shift in Lupus's expression earlier. She must have recognised Willhelm immediately — not just his name and title, but everything he represented.

She likes him… maybe even has a huge crush on him.

A cold realisation settled in Jack's gut, and he instinctively shrank back. He felt like an intruder watching these two people who seemed so perfectly in sync. If David were still alive, at least he would have had someone to relate to. They may not have been equals in looks, but they shared a passion for technology, for neuro-controllers and precision navigation.

But here? Here, Jack was an outsider.

Arcane terms like 'essences' and 'slots' were gibberish to him. He understood machines, not magic. Though he stood just a metre away, a vast chasm seemed to separate them, a gulf of knowledge, status, and presence.

Am I jealous? Jealous of Willhelm Mae Arden? He scoffed inwardly.

You've got to be kidding me…

Yet, even as he denied it, the hollow feeling remained. He reached for the locket dangling from his neck, his fingers brushing over the faint digital-ink image of his son.

The simple act grounded him, though it did little to ease the ugly emotion gnawing at his chest.

Willhelm, ever composed, gave a final, apologetic nod.

"Well, I do believe I've taken up far too much of your time," he said smoothly, his movements as effortless as a flowing river.

With that, he turned to the receptionist, sorted his room, and was handed a keycard.

Without missing a beat, he departed, moving as if the world simply realigned itself to his path.

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